” Sing your death song and die like a hero going home”. – Tecumseh

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face. Moving G-d like before me while angels wait.

In and out of minutes, heartbeats slowing, I see her dancing upon a dawn filled sea. Planting footsteps that are visible to only those who would see. And it seems that she would kiss me nicely. And it seems she would fly with me. For she is of the beginning. The beginning of my eternity.

If I should hear her if I should go to play. If my shoes should not fit and stay unlaid. If voices should become a second place. On a present morning before the sun has thought to raise. If change should happen, music and light replace my pleasant grace. If G_D should find me willing to ride the wind on her beckon of faith. My heart broken, my breath that can longer taste. My taste for earth fainter than my fading face. Oh, then Victoria I will ascend in numbers across this water so chaste. While there are seconds moving, time that I no longer make, my soul moving, into spirit beyond the tides that break.

If moving morning shadows should bring me angels. If their high notes should barriers break. If I should find myself willing, to touch her face. A distant journey, now a present place. No longer a question, indecision, or an unintelligible race. If I should no longer suffer, descend to a stoic held together by man’s science or medical case. Know that I am moving upon that water, my eyes wider, no terror left to shake. If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me while angels wait. In death I trip, but so quickly I reach and touch your blessed lace. That which makes you in me. That which you let me take.

If I should walk in mystery, into thy ark with such an airless ease. If their would-be Seraphim that fold their wings when I, upon my journey make. Touching syllables, that only immortals make, crying holy, while she dances for me. If I am growing lighter, closer than, closer than my G_D to thee. For here there would be no lessor freedoms than what she has made in me. If she would make an equation, a variable to a prophesy, it would be that I am with Victoria, for in Victoria I have come to be.

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me.

Jovine DeMarcus’s daughter carries his thoughts and blood deep within her. I am married to her. Jovine taught me how to pull wire, hammer a nail, and put together the most intricate electrical wiring equations. I taught him about the mountains. He wanted me to call him dad and I fought it. I fight it no longer. Jovine went to his Victoria, his woman of the water and mountain on December 23rd, 2020 at 4:15 AM in the morning. Sweet travels Dad. Sweet travels. Miss you much more than I ever thought I would. 12.31.20- דָּנִיֵּאל


Magnum Mysterium Phantasm

“The unknown is not that the soul never changes. The mystery is that the spirit does.” – DS

I thought myself a haunted house in a deep darkened wood, and every December I changed and became whole again.” -DS

There were angels dancing in shadows. There were angels darkened in shape. Singing magnum mysterium. Magnum mysterium. Awake!

Magnum mysterium phantasm is a spot in my mind, a haunted memory of pictures I cannot find. Darkness, darkness hello my old friend. A world floating with numbers, where does reason end. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living…

There sits in a wood a house broken, scarred, and battered and worn. It has eyes on an inward soul searching, haunted on the eve of a storm. The snow it falls on it duly, the ice it makes its way in. There is no way to know if now truly how to separate the ghost from within. So long ago its construction, upon faith and a matter of fact. Articles concentrated by a convention, signed by a builder, his cloak the color of black. This house has a foundation laid in the winter; its windows sealed by the night. What is one to say of this haunting, what is one to say of this errant decay? Can a house be a home really, when absolution of night rules the day? Failing the lack of an answer, the house will let phantasm take it away.

Oh, house that could be a mansion filled with light and magic within, on the eve of a great holiday glorious, how you sit there shrouded in din. How it is you, revel in stillness, pushing magic farther within. Forming union with all the legions, the darkest daemons of unconscious sin. Your inward walls collapsing in terror, your paint peeling within. For the lack of a coherent answer, the only sound is the noise of the northern wind. Did your blueprint not hold some passion, a design of song to begin? Was there never strength in your timbers to hold you up when the darkness began?

As I set here writing this missive, in the sunlight on a bright December day. Thinking how the dark words flowed so smoothly, I was shaken by what they relayed. An insight of a fool really, I am the house, and it is time for a change. I am the house, and it is time for a change.

Magnum mysterium phantasm is a spot in my mind, a haunted memory of pictures I cannot find. Darkness, darkness hello my old friend. A world floating with numbers, where does reason end. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living…

There were angels dancing in shadows. There were angels darkened in shape. Singing magnum mysterium. Magnum mysterium. Awake! – 12.17.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל


“O Lord thou broughtest up my soul from the nether-world. Thou didst keep me alive, that I should not go down to the pit.” – Psalm 30:4

I remember that moment in December.

The Christmas tree stands before me in the darkness looking like a totem in a dress. It watches over me, and the gifts below it with a calm steady attendance. The house around me is quiet, the coming exhilaration putting an end to the present anticipation some three hours to the future. Though it is that magic soon comes my way, I am filled with a great and terrible dread. A worrisome moment, I would venture to say a bothersome familiar. It has always been that way. It seems at that moment it always will be. I am thirteen years old, and I am sore afraid.

You wake me in darkness, the dream still fresh. You cast yourself a web encircling, a motion picture to remember. You kiss me your lips icy cold, but always tender. Your fingers trace my earlobes, beckoning, leading me to enter. Through the frozen windowpane, the one in frost that bares my name. Not a king or poor man me, just a child flying into December. For not alone would here I be, the stars above, not shrunken, by this belief. In divinization you mirror, from all around me. Greatness tall in leave less trees, broken shadows upon the patches of crusty snow near my feet. Angels, that bless this prayerful peace, justified in grace. The opposite of the great tragedy, that I have always seen. Lord my Lord, you heal me in divinity, Lord my lord you choose December.

I saw a child in a chair he sat, through a dark glass looking at all he saw pass. It seemed a strange moment of familiarity, like a lifetime of poses, that strike a similarity. In a question I posed in a deep, deep dream. What did that boy want to see, and was he really, really me? Where he stayed his eyes open, full of amber shine, there were thoughts and doubts, were those eyes really mine? All around that boy that was surely me, was a contemplative notion of what the world could be. It was filled with worry and a massive tragedy. Still he sat there all alone by a Christmas tree, and he moved not from December.

You lead me in a great darkness, that truthfully is at times hard to grasp. This little bit of life has been a hell of a task. I would be remiss if I were not to say, that this night between you and me. This touch, this sensitive intimacy, was needed before December. Standing here in this sacred place, my own back yard a sanctuary. The world spinning a celestial sea, the silence, the great divide closing, there is no seam. For here it seems, you would have me be, no longer going back and forth through eternity. Not a frightened child through a darkened glass, looking in terror at all that would pass. The opposite of the great tragedy, that I have always seen. Lord my Lord, you heal me in divinity, Lord my lord you choose December.

I remember this moment in December. – 12.24.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

First Christmas

“Expectancy is the atmosphere for miracles”. – Edwin Louis Cole

I cannot shake the feeling of familiarity, even though each time you come around I feel new. A loving heart filled with specific clarity, of the special kind of person that I have in you. I would strike a deal of my eternal security; run the judgment gantlet a time or two. If G_D in all her wisdom and her mercy, would let me walk through a winter snow with you. The lore of love is all around us, between life’s mountains what a view. The universe in snow in Colorado, the quaking Aspen below a sky that is blue. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes, the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just.

There are many who would say that it was unspoken, signs between spirits not above. A deal made by a minion who knew better? A course of instigation of not what was. For all the times we thought we were not special, for all the dread our twosome stumbled through. In all of this pain and degradation, we were hibernating, waiting in a winter wonderland to become new. In a prayer, that we have no words for, in a language uttered from the stars above. Who’s to know but us what we are given, ties that bind that make us thus. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just.

For we have not died alone, but together, while moving parts have changed above. The snow around us is a carol, sung immortal in our love. We alone have sampled heartache, as such in life our deeds have some. For how we remained as faire together, for how our destiny was done. One hand raised unto the heavens, the other tied within our love. Now we see the door opened, not a shadow do we bare, and what was once is now forgiven. As ghost and angels, hold our future in such a cold thin air. Within us both strikes a hallow, a white warmth from light’s guiding lair. We rise as one together, no need for ties that bind. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just. – 12.20.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For Susan.


Adeste Melancholia

Through the last year, I thought myself many things.  Often lost, too much a crazy prophet, and often broken, without a schematic in front of me on how to heal.  Somewhere around Christmas or perhaps a little bit afterwards, I took the time to just sit in one place still, and there in the most extraordinary way I found myself home. – דָּנִיֵּאל

The mirrors are placed upon each side, one so deep in the winter snow, tall dark firs, and a candle that glows. The other goes forward to what, who knows. The year ahead in a stranger’s clothes. But here in the silence of what is warm, Augustus Santa, and a Christ child, would you think stillborn.  So many shadows in lessons of things untried. Still here by this tree side, with lights and ribbons now untied. What is forward or back, I cannot decide. So many times, lost after Christmas, in winter tide, changing what used to be, reaching for the child inside. O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide!

I have seen angels at Christmas time, they are like witches, and both can fly. They leave their charms by my bedside, and when I awake there’s snow outside. Still all this magic, in Yuletide, when it’s December, my mind is right. So, these reflections of one past night, an instant forward, and both are right. To be caught inside the light, of past and future sight, I cannot begin, to cry enough, to end what is held in. O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide!

Adeste Melancholia is a dragon that eats your soul, it comes when you are not ready, and you feel so old. Your temples are not built, and your gospels just fold. Faith can’t treat the daemons of that Christmas so old. Still there’s something I will tell you if you want to be told, hiding in your winter snow. Deeper than any secret you can hold.

Time is a present not forward or past; it is built of instant treasure in the footing you possess. And when you cross the breech from Christmas to the brand new year, torn between Adeste Melancholia and the premise you think clear. Close your eyes an instant and join the note. Hear of a thousand languages of stillness that time bespoke. And to yourself make clear, one moment ever clear. Call down the heavens and say I AM here, this way, I AM here, always. I AM here!

O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide! – 12.30.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Invictus 1896

“Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul”. – William Ernest Henley – Invictus

“At Christmas, all roads lead home”. – Marjorie Holmes

The specter came upon them that Christmas morn, dressed as the ancient, her eyes weary and worn. And it was when each looked to see, they saw only the reflection of themselves set free. And each favored lady took it to mind, what did it mean, to know the beginning of time. So, they all gathered where all ladies wait, in the main quarters of their mysterious estate. For something had happened, that they needed to know, what was their bloodline, and from where did it flow.

The needles of pine stopped falling precisely, the minute the clock in the great hallway rang one. The darkened hearth came too so suddenly, as if awakened by some ethereally song. The aroma of secrets of soft cloth and bedding, the richness of kisses, and spells done till dawn. The veil is closing, from those so blinded. For centuries, they thirsted, for now what is won. Come dresses of linen of silk, on rose skin scented, the candles are burning, so tapered so thin. The snowflakes fall, from windows in heaven. Tongues twist to catch them to mix with hot gin. The tale the sum, the time of investment, the thousand years must stretch to no end. Time is sewn into gowns and vestments. The Invictus has come and the coven is ready for the tale to spin.

“Gather this midnight; come near my mind”, whispers sweet Mina, she whispers in rhyme, “Come ladies of mine”.

I will tell you a story, with night as its start, a legend, a secret, held deep in my heart. A dream of a talon that scratched a skin bare, in December’s wonder, a woman so faire. She bled only one drop of blood in the snow, and from it rose daemons, in beauty they glowed. What came out of Streoneshalh, from that ancient day, the birth of a witch from an Abbess that strayed? Upon such ground so formed by the ice, came manners of beings that conjure by night. And here by a summons of that woman so faire, rose a loft manor, the rooms of our lair. Oh, dreamers dream dreams, sweet ladies you are melding, dancing in spirit, your hearts all aglow. I beg you by name; bring forth the “Invictus”, come winter spirit, and in Whitby unfold.

By term, they arise, to dance in the essence, of the forboden. Past particle present, of where they began. In twos and threes, they summon the abbess, spirit that is chambered immortal within. Amazing grace, the music is playing, the manor shakes so warm from within, the half-moon falls from its place in the heavens, sweet witches pleasured by familiars of sin.

Words with no sound they come from sweet Mina, with names and stories from what has been.

The half-moon strikes the ruins of the abbey; the snow on its arches highlights shadows from in. Deep underground lies an ocean of spirits, minus one abbess who has risen again. Across winter skies comes a dark dragon, a flying red leviathan from before time began. An icy gale moves throughout Lucy’s garden, breeching dead petals, and hedgerows thick limbs. Inside the manor the festive are dancing, the ball of the “Invictus” begins! Gather your hearts, and feast from this table, the call from dead fables spins round again. Each witch’s soul has been searched by an angel, that which is ever is planted within.

“It’s the beginning,” thinks Mina, as lights cross the sky. The embers reflected like sparks in her eyes. “The beginning of ever, beyond never end”!

A very happy holiday to all and a special kiss under the mistletoe for my Whitby Ladies, Lucy, Mina, Madison Poe, Elisheba, Resa, Carlotta and Evangeline, you have certainly made the year interesting. – 12.24.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Scotch & Elves (Yuma)

The muse and I for once are not arguing, not divided.    

Dante and I are out near South Detroit Street in Yuma, this is last year before the Holidays, a few months before the end of August when he would die. It’s midnight, could be a dream, maybe real, what’s the difference, I’ll let you the reader decide. We are both drunker then catnip, higher than kites. Don’t judge me here fellow citizens, I was just trying to survive. We’re laying right by the railroad tracks, looking at the second star to the right, discussing, what was the meaning of the season and such. An important topic for a muse and his possessed.

“It’s special” I say, “for the mystery inside, the daemons in the firelight, under snow filled skies. The Nicholas in shadows, the one of which I’ll write. I know you have seen him my muse, while inside, painting the pictures from which I will scribe. There’s the eve before midnight, while we pagans dance, and our eyes reflect candles, and sugarplums in our heads.”

“There’s a train coming”, Dante bends forward looking around the silo toward the west. I can see the pale yellow single light stirring the cold darkness in the distance. “It’s a haunt coming”, Dante’s voice is low like a growl, as he turns and looks at me. I can see his teeth, shining. “Your turn”, I say! “What”, Dante looks down studying the cold gravel near the iron track. “YOUR TURN to talk about the season”, I say. The train is getting closer, the distant horn, sounding louder, the light from the single eye brighter. “Well” Dante says as he stands up and steps out onto the tracks, his long dark cloak flowing out behind him.

“It’s special” he says, “for the scotch and elves, and the wishes we toast, the garland in windows and Jimmy Stewarts ghost. The treasure of Gloria, the heavens of host. The storms of strife, looking, to find peace somewhere. The comfort of snow, for it hides what is dead, but promises living, in spring far ahead. The folklore of Dickens, whom I’ve never read, but G-D bless us everyone, well there it’s been said”.

The train is upon us, as Dante gently steps to one side, his hair not moving even with the mighty wind, that stirs around the rumble of the heavy dark cars whipping by. “That was beautiful, really it was Dante”, I say my words rising as I’m having to scream to compete with the moving sound of the train. Our little spot on South Detroit Street, seems centric with our seasonal philosophy. The muse and I for once are not arguing, not divided. It’s as if the spell of scotch and elves has brought us together. – 12-16-2016- דָּנִיֵּאל

Frost (The Third Lament)

The watch came upon me at three, the tenor of voices outside, or maybe in the vale of my sleep. I thought, I heard my daddy say, it’s frost outside, but still it’s okay. For trouble in winter is better than spring, your wrapped and you’re ready to weather most anything. It was a dream, or not, for of this I cannot say, for my daddy is dead, and I am in winter, and the frost how it grows, layer upon layer eating my soul. And these hollow hallways where I am not wrapped, my bones feel like the parchment, and my body is bled. And I was not ready, and it was the first lament.

Visions change as hearts do, and so it was a different watch upon a post night, before morning, but still winter. The landscape was white with patterns, I thought myself a child again, in New Mexico, raised upon a high plateau with nothing but frost, that devil so cold. There was nothing else to view. And the spirit of G_D came in lights, racing round my young naked form, cold, and baby blue. It seemed while I wept their raised a testimony, in a voice that sounded like the ghost of my daddy too. And while the frost filled me, I heard the specter, say Hashem has made you the head too. But I was not ready, and it was the second lament.

And the watches changed, for there was no one left before me, and the skies above became like copper, and the earth below made of white iron for the frost knew my name. The dream became me, and I the dream, and I thought of all the clothing I had lost, and what had changed. And I was ready, and it was the third lament.

The dream was morning, with the fire of the December sun burning the frost of the Colorado sky before me. And Adonai burned me, and the third lament was ever within me, a possession, changed and new.

Deuteronomy 28:13 – 12.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

This December You Should Eat Candy

Candy Canes_0

For the first time, I am sensing a pox on the land.  Mind you not your ordinary lactose intolerant funk.  This pasty pale that has settled over the globe appears built of greater sinister quality.  My thoughts at first settled around a blame game kind of thing.  After all it’s that Holiday time of year.  Something about the Yule log, Hanukkah and frenzied Christians insisting that Jesus is the reason just loops people.  Dark feelings over take and well you know bring out the anti-depressants and Sigmund Freud.  This year though, this year!  How do I wrap my words into description?  That’s it I think, this year has silence.  A strange void has settled upon the populous.  A desert has leaked into the fruited fields of spirit; a great unwashed has been scrubbed clean.  That I would venture frustrates me, and yes my imaginative readers it might should bug you too.

So what we have here on my part is a bit of theological musings.  Kind of a basic eschatology of wit, that will defy most of what, my compadres slumping through this codex of mysticism believe.  Many of these wonderful folks will probably hasten to find their old VHS copy of “The Exorcist” to shake their fingers at their blurry screen when Linda twirls and say “aha, aha”.  That’s okay.  A fair season ago I hypothesized that there are more than enough thinking bigots to each build their own tower of Bable.  I just figured I would love them enough to rent them the building tools it takes.  Leasing suggestive guidance can be a lucrative business, so I have heard from many a television evangelist.  I would be remiss if I didn’t offer a little mortar to all those towers.

Have you seen many lights and decorations going up around you this year?  I did a little informal survey in our hamlet, an anecdotal investigation if you will.  It had occurred to me that after living in this neighborhood for the past four Holiday seasons, things were looking just somewhat gloomier this year.  I spread my sleuthing out to include other neighborhoods.  Low and behold, the lightless homes began to flood my imaginary list.  The lack of Santa and Rudolph, and the baby Jesus on lawns far and wide was noticeable.  The dreariness was unspeakable.  Homes seemed desolate and hollow.  Indeed it was as if a pestilence had invaded the land.

It occurred to me, as you might already be thinking that this whole rag of mine might have its basis in the meager economic times countless are facing.  The modern era of December has usually been linked closely with materialism.  Some very spiritual like language has been addressed in accordance to what little Johnnie or Helga received under the Pagan tree.  Words like blessed, joy, loved, have all been linked carefully with given and spent and the latest shiniest digital what not.  It could be true that finances play a roll here, but I don’t think so.  We have history to look to as our guide to disprove that one.  Many a homemade gift was given during the World’s great depression from 1930 to 1939.  People were living in boxes, and they still found a way to carve a manger set out of a few pieces of lye soap to display.  Millions of Jews found a way to celebrate Hanukkah while being marched to the gas chambers during the holocaust.  The survival instinct of the human race has always been stronger than having a few gold coins to call your own.

The negated today finds itself at home in the opposite of G-D.  There I wrote it.  I even gritted my teeth when I put the words down.  There had to be something there.  What I am about to write is going to illicit howls from many of my brethren.  That’s good.  You’re alive and not nullified.  The reverse of good is not evil.  The opposite of salvation is not sin.  The conflict of judgment is not compassion.  There is no conflict for they are one.  True opposition is not when the structure is destroyed to be replaced with another building.  When trepidation is replaced with apprehension you still have fear, and therefore you live, your spirit resides.  No is not opposite of yes, as any good sales representative will tell you, the cash register will not ring the sale when the prospective client says nothing.  We have acquired ground zero my crew, and the enemy of life and the goodness we all seek is nothing.  In nothing is where real abandoned of Sheol reside.  It is the eye of the soul that has been at long vanquished by our civilization, and we are witness to one another of the emptiness we see.  The holiday from nothing has retreated.  The Mid Winter Solstice finds itself changing clothes under the stealth gaze of electronic ghost and weapons, for they see only, but they are nothing in the performance of logic, in the death of the living that they seek.  Nothing has sought to cleanse the law of something.

This December you should eat candy.  This holiday you should sing to your G-D in a minor key.  In the night of the twenty-first you should burn incense and dance naked like perhaps the Druids did before the North Sea.  You should carve your manger out of pieces of lye soap, and celebrate what a wonderful nativity you see.  Hanukkah sweet Hanukkah, it is the Assembly of Yisrael’s time to turn and harvest the tree.  It is an end of time it is a beginning of time.  While we celebrate, the real eternal will change the laws, and that candy you taste will harmonize your being with a glow in your soul that is something free. – DS – 12/12/2013